Paycheque (20 page)

‘Would you rather I opened it?'

‘No. I think I can do it.'

As she reached forward, Claire noticed how oddly silent it was. There was no rustling in the trees or squawking of birds outside. It was like the emptiness after a drum roll and before a grand announcement: absolute stillness. The sherry mixing with her nerves was making her feel a little queasy. She picked up the envelope.

‘Claire, just remember it's not personal. It's business to them. They don't even know you.'

Claire nodded, and with shaking fingers peeled the seal off the envelope, prised out the folded single piece of paper and smoothed it out on her lap.

Bernadette held her breath while silently begging the insurance gods to be kind. She watched as Claire's chest sank and her shoulders slumped.

After a few moments, Claire looked up from the page twitching in her shaking hand and, with a look of consternation and a weary
sigh, handed Bernadette the letter. A few tears began to roll their way down her face. Bernadette accepted it with a sympathetic smile and began to read. Claire refilled their glasses.

‘Not personal' was an understatement. Beyond her name being part of the address and reference to the policy number, it could have been from the
Reader's Digest
announcing Claire had made it through to the second round prize draw. In two crisp paragraphs it stated that the claim had been assessed and subsequently rejected as per the terms set out in the policy document. In typical proforma fashion it apologised for any inconvenience caused and informed Claire that her excess had increased by five hundred dollars because the drink driving charge showed an increased insurance risk. It was almost ridiculous – someone had bloody well died. Keith had only been a sniff over point oh five – and he hadn't even caused the accident in the first place.

‘Jesus Claire, where do they get off?'

Claire gave a resigned shrug.

‘We can't let them get away with it.'

‘Looks like they just have.'

‘What about contacting the Insurance Ombudsman?'

‘And what would that do? They'd read where it clearly states in the policy that unlawful acts render it null and void, and point out that drink driving is an unlawful act – even the tiniest bit over point oh five. You said it yourself: it's about business, the bottom line. They'll try and wriggle out of a claim any way they can. It's their job.'

‘So you're just going to lie down and take it?'

‘Pretty much – it's not like I wasn't expecting it. To be honest, it's a bit of a relief to have it over with after all this time.'

‘But they haven't even got the facts right. They're making it sound like
you
were the one drink driving – that's slander or defamation, or something, surely. Write to the bloody Ombudsman, Claire! At least do something!' Bernadette was so riled that she could hardly breathe.

‘Bernie, you're the one always saying we should learn our lesson and move on. Well, that's what I'm doing. Anyway, I'm too tired to
fight. It's been a shithouse year and I just want it to end. Maybe this is the cosmos telling me it's time to sell the house. I sure as hell can't afford to keep it
and
pay for the four-wheel drive.'

‘I don't know,' said Bernie. ‘But I don't think you should do anything rash. Anyway, you don't have to pay it in one hit – just continue with the monthly payments and buy yourself some time. Selling the house is a huge step – you want to make sure it's what you really want, or that it's really necessary. I don't want you having regrets.'

‘You're right. I need to calm down and think things through.'

‘But seriously, I do think you should contact the Ombudsman or someone. At least then you'll feel like you've done
something
. And it certainly couldn't hurt.'

Claire was relieved her father was still out with the horses when Bernadette finally left. It had taken a few hours, three cups of tea and a mountain of cheese and crackers to soak up the alcohol. He'd come in and then quickly fled the ‘girly' scene, saying he had some errands to run in town. Claire was glad. She really needed to have a talk with him, but wasn't yet ready to discuss the insurance being rejected. Part of her really did feel relieved it was over. But Bernie was right: she would regret not at least trying to get their decision overturned.

She busied herself with making dinner – shepherd's pie, one of her father's favourites – all the time dreading how the evening would play out. Already on edge waiting for Jack to come inside, her stomach flip-flopped when she finally heard him banging the dirt from his heavy boots outside the back door.

‘Something smells good,' he said, coming into the kitchen.

Claire felt her tension lift. She held out the steaming casserole dish like a child with her first school report.

‘Wow, I'm starving.'

‘Well it's ready when you are.'

‘Just wash my hands and I'll be with you.'

Claire dished up the meal, shaking her head at the way men just seemed to get over things while women kept stewing. It was marvellous, but at the same time it was an incredibly frustrating trait. Women had to have things thrashed out, resolved. And she, especially, needed everything discussed, the options and courses of action laid out clearly and chosen, and for both parties to state their agreement, before she could really get over it.

Keith had often teased her about needing the solution metaphorically wrapped up, put in a box and sealed with a nice pink bow. She couldn't help it if she liked things to be just so. Claire remembered the withering look he'd give her whenever she asked him to sit down and discuss something.
Bless him
, she thought. He'd been the most patient, loving man in the world. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and in her lashes.

‘You okay?' Jack asked, appearing next to her.

‘Yep. Copped a bit of steam, that's all,' she said, really hoping he wouldn't put his arm around her. She swallowed hard; Keith was gone and that was that.

Claire was ravenous thanks to the sherry, but began pushing the food around her plate after barely tasting a few forkfuls. She was fretting about how to bring up the argument and apologise without completely belittling herself – she still believed her father should have consulted her before getting the horses. Maybe they could ease into it from a safer angle.

‘Dad?'

‘Yep.' Jack looked up from his plate.

‘I was wondering if it would be okay to have lunch here for the Melbourne Cup – something small, just a few friends. I thought then you could have a lie down if you needed to.'

‘Did you just?'

Claire blinked. This was not how it was meant to go at all. ‘Well yes.'

‘Are you
asking
me or
telling
me, Claire?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Well it sounds to me you've already decided. You've got plans well underway, have you not?'

Claire coloured. ‘Um, well…'

‘I know all about it. Steve at the newsagent told me – it's all around town. And didn't I feel a right idiot not knowing I was having a do here?'

Claire cursed the efficiency of the bush telegraph. ‘Sorry,' she muttered, feeling like a sixteen-year-old caught coming in late with alcohol on her breath.

‘Claire, you went off at me for not discussing Newman's horses with you, but it's okay for you to go behind my back and…'

‘Oh, come on, it's hardly the same!'

‘I wouldn't dream of telling you what house or car to buy, or job to take. Horses are my business and I haven't done so badly over the years.'

‘Dad, you're broke. Look around you, the place is a dump.' Claire cringed when she saw the pained expression that crossed her father's face.

‘You know nothing about my financial situation and you don't need to. Suffice to say, what you see is not always what you get. You spend your money on dinners, flashy clothes and new cars to – I don't know – uphold your self-image or something. I don't care what people think – quite frankly, I'd rather save a horse with potential from the knackery.'

Claire looked back down at her plate with the roads of thick potato passing through the stewy tomato and mince. She tried to analyse what she'd just been told. Did her own father really see her as some pretentious cow only concerned with making impressions?

‘Claire, I'm not having a go at you – merely pointing out we have different priorities. There's nothing wrong with that. And while we're speaking about horses, I bought them because I thought you needed
more to occupy you for the year. But I guess I jumped the gun. I should have consulted you.' He offered her an apologetic smile.

‘I'll call it even if we can still have the Cup lunch here,' Claire said with raised eyebrows.

‘Claire McIntyre, you drive a hard bargain.'

‘Really? I wonder where I learnt that.' They both laughed, the tension gone.

‘You really bought the horses for me?'

‘Of course. As you rightly pointed out, I'm no longer riding. How else am I going to get them up to standard? I thought we'd make a great team – another assumption, sorry. I want these horses to prove that bastard Todd Newman wrong.'

‘And if they don't?'

‘They will. I know they don't look much now, but they'll come good.'

‘And if they don't?'

‘It's a gamble, I'm the first to admit that. But life's a gamble. The challenge is what makes it fun.'

‘But what if they can't run?'

‘They've each got a brain and four legs. Of course they can run.'

‘But…'

‘How fast just depends on how much they want to – that's our job.'

Claire did not share her father's optimism. She was competitive through and through and did not want to be on a handicapped team, which was what they would be with a worn-out old trainer, a bunch of reject horses and facilities that were basic at best.

No, if she was going to be in the racing game, she wanted to be involved with a big successful outfit with the best facilities and staff to do the shit work – one of those establishments with the glossy white wooden fences and a brightly painted sign standing proudly out front.

Claire McIntyre did not want to be the laughing-stock of the racing
fraternity. But she couldn't exactly leave her father to go and work for someone else. What was this mental job hunt all about, anyway? She thought about Bernadette's folded contract in her pocket. Surely she could lend a hand for the year. She wouldn't have to be seen as Jack's partner, just his daughter. It might even be fun.

‘So, are you in?'

Claire looked up, slightly startled from her thoughts. ‘Well…'

‘I'll need a full commitment or else I'll have to get someone in. As I said, I can't train four horses alone.'

‘Okay, but I can't make any guarantees beyond twelve months.'

‘Thank you, I really appreciate it. Now we just have to get you fully infected with the racing bug so you never want to leave,' he said with a smirk.

Claire gave a deep sigh. She really hoped she wasn't going to regret this.

When Claire woke on Melbourne Cup Day, the dawn was still grey through the curtains. She heard Jack's footsteps through the house and then the slap of the back screen door. Feeling a little guilty at not getting up to help him feed the horses, she rolled over and pulled the quilt up over her head.

What seemed only minutes later she heard tyres on the gravel outside her window and two excited voices: one male, one female. She poked her head out to check her watch on the bedside cupboard. Damn, it was almost nine. She wasn't ready to face the day. Claire rolled over again and buried her face – if only she could wake up when it was all over.

She could hear the mutter of Bernadette issuing orders and cupboards being opened and shut in the kitchen. ‘God, why did I agree to this?' Claire groaned.

‘Come on sleepy head,' Bernie called from the open doorway. ‘Thought you horsey people got up at sparrow fart.'

Claire sat up scowling and pushed her hair from her face.

‘Turn that frown upside down.'

‘I can't.' Claire pouted.

Bernadette leapt onto the bed like she had countless times as a teenager. ‘Come on, it's Cup Day. You've gotta get up!' she cried, pulling the quilt from Claire's grasp.

‘I just want it to go away,' Claire moaned.

‘No, that's what you say tomorrow morning when you're all hung-over and wanting to throw up.'

‘God, don't remind me.'

‘If you don't get up now I'll…'

‘What? What you gonna do, Bernie?' Claire challenged, suddenly grinning.